


Oh, bless me, father

by Sanziene



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blasphemy, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Modern AU, Priest Kink, Sacrilege, and, if you are religious, if you take offense in things like, maybe don't read this fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-08-11 23:28:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20161879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanziene/pseuds/Sanziene
Summary: For months now, since Daenerys moved to the remote village where Father Jorah’s parish lays, they have been teetering at the edge of something.Stolen glances and soft, chaste touches, whispered words behind the screen of the confessional…  it all comes tumbling down one rainy night.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Second warning that this fic might not be for you!
> 
> Things that inspired this fic:  
This song: [Imany- Don't be so shy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=esGIiv9sqRk)  
Fleabag, Season 2

It’s dark outside, the days are short and cold now, winter is beginning to settle in for the year. There will be no snow, there rarely is nowadays, but the rain rules these parts of the world and Jorah can already hear its rapid taps on the newly repaired roof of his beloved church. Inside, the only light flickers above the wax candles spread out through the old, drafty church. 

“I want something I should not, father,” Daenerys says behind the screen of the confessional booth. 

Jorah waits for her to finish, but she says nothing more, and silence falls between them heavy, like the thick raindrops hitting the roof. 

“What is it that you want?” He asks with a puzzled frown upon his face. 

“You.” She says simply and it knocks the breath out of his lungs.

“I’m sorry, I must have mishea—” he starts, but before he can finish he sees a flash of silver hair through the old, metal screen and hears the drape on her side of the confessional open.

He is sure he misheard her words, yet his hand still shakes as he clutches the thick, red fabric of the drapes and swings it aside. He’s half surprised to find Daenerys outside the booth, waiting, looking up at him. 

“You,” she says again, “I want you.” And from the look in her eyes, there’s no doubt that she means it in the biblical sense.

She moves closer to him, only a hand width apart and he freezes where he stands. Looking down into her eyes, he gulps. 

_ No, this is all wrong, this can not be, _he thinks.

They’re alone in his church, and there is no noise between them other than their breaths, the sound of the burning candles, and the rain above them.

“What do _ you _ want?” She asks, so close he can feel her breath on his lips. 

_ Nothing_. He knows he should utter that two-syllable word, but can’t. Not even as the white-collar tightens around his neck, reminding him of his vows, reminding him that he is a slave to God, not men, nor women. Not the woman standing before him. 

Her hand lays on his clerical shirt, her fingers running over the buttons of his garment and he’s reminded that he _ is _ her slave. That they have been dancing at the edge of something for months and somewhere along the way he had lost dominion over himself. 

_ Nothing,_ he says again in his head, but it’s a lie. He wants so many things. Things he knows he should not want, all blasphemy and sacrilege. He wants his tongue to spell inside her mouth all the words he can not utter. He wants the same mouth to run across the mont of her breasts, to wrap around her nipples and suck them into peaks. He wants to go down on his knees and write with his tongue a thousand prayers on the altar between her legs. He wants to lay her down, back flat on the altar of his church and fuck her until she screams not God’s name, but his. He wants to lose himself inside her, this goddess he had found, or the demon that had found him. 

He could never. The pits of hell would await him if he did, and he is a man of honor, his vows had not been taken lightly. So he anchors his feet to the crumbling rocks before the precipice. He can not fall, if he does he is lost, if he does there is no turning back. But Daenerys leans in, her mouth finding his, and suddenly he is falling and falling, like in a dream, a nightmare. And there is nothing in the world, nor the heavens above, or the hells below that could stop him from answering her kiss. He is doomed.

His heart is pounding against his rib cage and he trembles as her tongue finds its way inside his mouth. It’s been so long since he’s been kissed like that, he can’t even remember, and she’s latching on to him like a bird to its prey, hungry, needy. Her fingers are in his hair, pulling it as she slants his mouth, her tongue eagerly exploring. She is in control, no, in command. She has been since they had first met, since she had arrived in his small, woodland village, months ago. 

She bites down on his bottom lip, hard, then sucks on it and she may as well have sucked on another part of him. He’s hard, harder than he’s been in years, and it’s all because of her, for her. 

“Fuck!” She groans in his mouth as she rubs herself on him and the last of his tethers to his vows break loose, he is unchained and wild, like a beast set free for the first time in ages. One of his hands moves to her silver locks while the other travels to her ass, lifting her leg up, wrapping it around him, pressing her to his bulge. He twists and pushes her to the wall of the confessional hard enough for her breath to leave her lips. He groans before kissing her in earnest, his tongue exploring her sweet mouth, spelling inside those words he had kept at bay for so long. _ Want. Need_. And others, much more profane.

Not breaking the kiss, he casts his eyes down at her dress, a pale blue, wrap-around thing, short enough to barely kiss the tips of her knees. It’s frail and much too thin for the weather, he could rip it to shreds with his hands or teeth. He wants to, badly, but instead, he finds the cord and pulls on the simple bow. With one swift move, the dress unravels, releasing her naked breasts. They’re as beautiful as the contours under her clothes had led him to believe. A hand wraps around one, kneading the soft tissue, pinching the nipple between two fingers while his mouth kisses down her jaw, her neck, chest, until finally, his hand is replaced by his mouth.

His tongue curls around her nipple and Daenerys moans, “Father!” 

The word is blasphemy in her mouth and it makes him falter, removing his mouth from her now red-tinted breast and stiff nipple. He is not a man of the world, but a priest in God’s house and this is all wrong. But before the thought takes root inside his mind, as if she could read his thoughts, Daenerys pulls him into another kiss. Her hand grips his and directs it between her legs and even through the fabric of her panties his fingers coat themselves in her want. She pulls the underwear aside, then coaxes his fingers between her folds, whimpering in his mouth. She is so wet, and so beautiful and so wanton that he’s forgotten again who he is, where he is. A finger slips inside her and she moans in his mouth, “Yes!” 

All of a sudden, there’s nothing in the world but her, there is nothing inside his mind, nor his soul but her. His ring finger joins the middle one already in her and her hips ride them both as his mouth bites, then kisses down her neck. He curls those fingers until he can feel the sensitive ridge inside her and her hips falter. He moves them in and out of her as his index and pinky glide on each side of her most sensitive mont and she trembles in his arms.

Cut-short words that sound like nothing more than babble leave her mouth in bursts. When he finds the tip of her nerve endings with his thumb, she looks up at him, brows furrowed, bottom lip between teeth, eyes pleading with him not to stop.

He wouldn’t dream of stopping. 

Eyes locked on her, he watches her gorgeous face as his fingers continue their ministrations, and he can see her climbing higher and higher, he can see it in the twitch of facial muscles, in the tremble of her lips, in the way her eyelids blink fast as her eyes roll to the back of her head. She comes around his fingers, whimpering and shaking, and melting out of his arms. 

With her head thrown back, her arms limp to her side, her body held up only by his arms, Jorah can’t help but think that she looks like a much more beautiful, happier version of Michelangelo’s La Pietà. 

A moment later, Daenerys comes to her senses and rights herself, planting both feet on solid ground. The smile on her lips has infected the rest of her features and he can’t help but feel his heart bloom at the sight. He tightens his arms around her.

“I didn’t know,” she says looking up at him, “if you’d ever been with a woman.”

No, she does not. He had told her nothing of his life before priesthood, while she had shared plenty of hers. 

“I thought, maybe, you’ve been a priest all your adult life, hadn’t had..._ the opportunity_ before you joined the clergy.” She chuckles softly before adding, “I got my answer now.” 

Jorah shakes his head in amusement. He doesn't tell her that he was married once, nor does he tell her that that failed marriage was the reason why he became a priest. 

She lifts herself on the tips of her toes and asks, lips brushing over his as she does, “What other things are you good at, Father?”

Jorah groans. There’s a beautiful, wicked smile on her face and a twinkle of something mischievous in her eyes. His answer sits on the tip of his tongue but chooses not to speak it. Instead, he lifts her up in his arms and wraps her legs around his waist. Inside her mouth, he spells the words he did not utter.

The rain above them has turned into a downpour and the sound of distant thunder accompanies the rumble of raindrops, a storm is coming, but neither notice.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

The only rumble that Jorah notices is the one in his chest as Daenerys’ hands pull his hair taut, her mouth kissing and biting his, her hips undulating on his groin, and there is nothing he wants more than to sink himself between her legs and lose his mind, his soul in her warmth.

With her wrapped around him, with his hands in her silver locks, his mouth hungry on hers, he makes his way towards the altar. To his shame, he’s pictured taking her on the same white marble before. Sometimes fast and needy, both half-dressed and panting with exertion, other times he would take his time, fuck her slow and long, her body writhing underneath him, her hand cupped to his face, her eyes filled not with passion but… 

_No! _He can not think of such things, he refuses to. This is just lust, and once the deed is done there might be a slither of hope for him and maybe a way back from it. Penance, and thousands of hours on his knees praying and begging for God’s forgiveness might keep him from the fiery pits, might save his soul and his future as a clergy. But if he falls, if he truly falls, not from the grace of God but for this woman, then he is truly doomed, for Jorah Mormont does not know how to do things in half measures, he only knows how to give himself fully. He had done so with Lynesse and it has destroyed him. He had done so with God and He had rebuilt him. What would Daenerys do to him?

But her ass touches the cold stone and she gives him a devilish smile, and he’s reminded again that this is just sex and not that beautiful, horrible, four-letter word. 

He takes a moment to look at her. She is naked, except for the damp, cotton panties, her blue dress discarded and forgotten on the floor, somewhere between the confessional and the altar. Her mouth, her neck, her breasts bright pink from his mouth and beard.

_She is Lilith made flesh again, beckoning me to hell and I can not resist her. _

But looking at her, young, beautiful, the marks of his lust laid on her body, her face showing her happy to bear them, he can’t help but think that whatever price he’ll have to pay for this, for _her_, it will be a fair one. 

He kisses her again, his mouth taking hers with renewed ardor and the much too warm and soft thoughts he has for her are replaced with the fervors of desire. Daenerys kisses him back just the same as her hands claw at his clerical shirt, fingers working the many buttons unsuccessfully. She lets out a frustrated groan inside his mouth, then fists the black fabric. Buttons fly like popped corn as she pulls and rips his shirt open. The hard, white collar, the symbol of his devotion and submission to God, falls to his feet with a soft clank.

_Does she know she has unchained me once more, or is she merely replacing God’s chains for her own?_

Her hand runs over his chest, fingers coiling around the golden hair, pulling him even closer. He feels her lips press to the corner of his as her hands move to his shoulders and down his arms, taking with them his shirt. She leaves the black fabric bundled up around his wrists, trapping his arms behind his back, and Jorah has his answer. 

Daenerys’ bottom lip trails up his cheekbone, soft and warm and lazy, her breath hot on his skin. She presses a soft kiss to his temple, then traces down the sharp angle of his cheek with the tip of her tongue. He can feel the smile on her lips as she presses a kiss to the edge of the cheekbone, then another and another down the vertical line to his mouth. His mouth looks for hers, but she won’t let him take it, instead, she brushes her tongue against his lips, licking and teasing, retreating whenever he finds hers.

Jorah groans, fumbling with his restraints, looking to break free. Her teasing is stirring something in this belly and below it, and oh, how differently things would be if he were free. But he is not, and she leaves his mouth yearning for hers only to move up the sharp line of his other cheekbone, her tongue once again licking the knife-like bone beneath his skin.

“I could cut my tongue on them,” she whispers, her breath fluttering hot in his ear, drawing a growl from him, making his hackles rise.

He can still feel the smile on her lips as she kisses down his neck, biting gently. “Do not worry,” she says between kisses and nibbles, “I won’t mark you as mine,” Daenerys looks up at him, something wicked lays in her eyes as she adds, “not anywhere one might see. One that is not _me_.” And to prove her words, she sinks her teeth just below his collarbone, sucking and licking at the spot like a succubus drinking away his life force. Jorah feels himself getting harder still, and frustration rises as he flounders with the two damned buttons on each cuff of his shirt. When her lips leave his flesh there’s no doubt he’ll see the mark for days to come. 

She continues trailing her lips down his chest, slowly, methodically. She speaks, and he can almost feel the shape of her words being tattooed on his skin. “I want you to remember me,” she says peppering kisses over his chest, “and tonight,” her tongue swirls around a nipple, “and the things we’ll do to each other,” she bites down gently then licks again, “for as long as you see my marks on you,” she sucks at a spot just below his nipple, “and longer still.” 

Thunder booms, drowning the sound of tearing fabric as Jorah breaks free of his restraints, sparing no thought to his destroyed shirt and lunging himself at her. A hand flies to the back of her head, fingers wrapping tight around silver locks, keeping her still as his mouth takes hers with need, with despair. Daenerys whimpers and moans as his other hand kneads the flesh of her back down to her ass, as his fingers twist and pinch her nipples, as the heel of his palm works the soft tissue. _God!_ He wants her like he’s never wanted anything in his entire damned life. Fingers slide between her flesh and the elastic of her panties, pulling at them, coaxing her to lift her ass off the marble and allow him to slip them off, but Daenerys flattens a palm over his chest and pushes him away. A cold shiver runs down his back and he stops. _No, Daenerys, do not deny me._

“What have I…?” He starts, but can not finish his question out loud. _What have I done wrong?_ He takes a step back and Daenerys' feet touch the floor. 

“Did I…? Is this not what you…? I thought...” 

Her hand reaches up to his face and she traces his cheekbone with a thumb. “It is, you thought right.”

“Then why...”

Daenerys does not answer, not with words, instead, she lifts herself on the tip of her toes and kisses him, taking her time, her tongue dancing a slow, dizzying tango around his. As she kisses, she moves her body and his until his back is pressed to the altar. 

She pulls away slowly and looks him in the eyes. It lasts barely longer than a blink, but she’s looking at him in a way she hasn’t in all the months he’s known her. As if he were the answer to her every prayer, as if he were no mere man but… 

Jorah is thankful for the press of hard marble to his back for his knees buckle and all the air in his lungs leave his lips. Then, as instantly as it came, it disappears and there’s no trace of tenderness left in her eyes, just lust and the cravings of the flesh. 

_It doesn’t matter._ He tells himself. It doesn’t matter, except that it does, except that that look upon her face might just be both his worst nightmare, and his greatest wish. If he could rewind time he would, a thousand times, again and again, just to see that look filled with… 

But her hand cups him through the fabric of his pants and he loses that thought. Not for the first time, Jorah wonders if she can read his mind, for every time his thoughts drift to anything but the pleasures of the flesh she pulls him out, reminding him that she has no time, nor interest in the torment of his mind and heart. 

She rubs him with one hand as the other pulls open his belt and undoes the single button. Looking up at him, she unzips his pants and lets them drop to his feet. Daenerys holds his gaze as she goes down on one knee, then the other before him, like a worshiper kneeling for Eucharist. But there is no piety in the act, nor her eyes as she does so, and all Jorah can do is gulp, his mouth feeling drier than the Desert of Paran. Her hands trail down his flat belly, fingers digging into his flesh and down his thighs, pulling with them his trunks, letting his erection spring free. 

Outside thunder bellows, the sound rattling the old, stained glass windows. He feels the sound reverberating through his body, shaking his insides and without warning, Daenerys’ hand wraps around his cock and her pink, wet tongue licks at its head.

Jorah’s hand reaches behind him, gripping the altar and steadying himself. He tries to keep the word _God_ from his mind but he can not because, oh, God, there’s a smile painted on her features as she brushes her kiss-swollen lips to the tip of him, as her tongue licks another strip up his cock. _Fuck!_

She is so beautiful and she’s looking at him with a smile so cocky it should be a sin in and of itself, and the smile doesn’t fade as her lips wrap around the head of his cock and she lets him into her mouth, or as she pulls him out to give the lightest of willful grazes with her pearly whites, then licks and kisses the same spot. Oh God, her mouth is so warm and silky and slippery, and her tongue so skilled, he could spill himself at any moment. 

“Dae– Fuck!” He says, his hands clenched on the marble as her tongue traces the shape of him, as she leaves full-mouthed, wet kisses up and down his cock. “Oh, God! …Daenerys!”

“Father?” She asks, her lips drawn into a brazen smile, the tip of him pressed to her open mouth, her breath hot on his cock. 

_Oh yes, she truly is Lilith. _Shameless and free, and happy to lift him higher and higher only to let him fall and fall until he is low enough to reach her underground kingdom.

Daenerys squeezes the tip of his cock between pressed lips, taking him in and in, until she can take no more, her hand moving up and down the part of him that does not fit inside her mouth and Jorah can no longer bring himself to care about Gods and Goddesses, about sacred or profane, about good and evil. The only thing he cares about is _she_, whoever she is, whatever she is, be it demoness, goddess or mere woman. It matters not. If she were Lilith he would follow her beneath the earth to her kingdom. If she were a goddess, he would find himself a proselyte. If she were a mere woman he would…

_Fuck!_

Inside her hot mouth, her tongue swirls around the crown of his cock and she’s sucking and sucking her mouth moving in time with the hand wrapped around his cock and… 

“Daenerys!”

She does not stop, of course, she does not. He has no power over her, she is… whatever she is and he is her mere slave, and yet she’s the one on her knees before him, his cock in her mouth… And it’s that thought and that sight that takes him to the edge and over it. 

He comes in a violent spell, shaking and growling, his hands clenching even tighter on the marble altar as he spills himself inside her mouth.

Looking up into his eyes, Daenerys drinks him like communion.


	3. Chapter 3

Thunder had rumbled again mere moments ago but Jorah did not hear it, for the thunder of his heart rang in his ears, silencing everything but him and her.

Lightning follows, illuminating the church for a blink of an eye, and Daenerys’ eyes shine like a goddess, or a demon. Be it either, or a trick of the eye, Jorah cares not, for something has changed in him. 

Another growl sits in his throat, making its way up to his tongue and out his lips. It’s a growl he heard last a lifetime ago, the kind that rumbled low as he charged into battle, rifle in hand, adrenaline pumping through his veins. He hasn’t heard it since he left the SAS, twelve years ago, and he never thought he’d hear it again, but there it is, a predator’s roar at the sight of its prey. 

_ There’s a beast in every man and it stirs when you put a weapon in his hand. _How true those words had been for him, but no longer, this time his beast stirs not before a fight, but at the sight of beautiful Daenerys, still on her knees, licking her lips clean of his release. This woman awakened that part of him he thought dead long ago, only to find it had merely hibernated. 

He growls again without even realizing and his eyes narrow in on her. Daenerys blinks in surprise, “Father?”

Jorah says nothing, but a smile pulls at the corner of his lips.

In one swift move, he lifts her up and places her ass flat on the altar. She blinks at him, looking shocked and surprised by the sudden movement, but he gives her no respite as his hands grab ahold of her panties, fingers pulling and pulling at the elastic band until they’re down her legs, around her ankles, and onto the marble floor. Now she’s naked before him, his prey, his prize, and oh, how beautiful she is as she’s scooting herself up the altar looking into his eyes, laying her back flat on the marble. She is Lilith no longer, not to him, now she is the lamb exchanged for Moriah and he is Abraham. But unlike Abraham, he would never hurt the lamb.

She’s waiting for him, wanting him to climb on top of her, to settle himself between her legs and _ fuck her _ . He can see it in her parted lips and in her eyes, in the way her thighs move, beckoning him. And God, he wants nothing more than that, but not just yet. _ Daenerys has played with fire, Daenerys should at least feel its warmth on her flesh. _

He smiles, and he knows the smile he’s giving her, he remembers it from his youth, from back when he used to be another man, a confident one, a strong, successful, military man. It’s a thin, predatory thing that reaches his eyes and puts a glint of something wicked in them.

He hasn’t been that man in so long, but he is now, and looking down at Daenerys, his prey, the skin of his old self is much more comfortable than that of a priest. 

His hands grab ahold of her ankles and he pulls her to him in one sweep, ass and back sliding on the altar until she’s settled between his legs, where she should be, where she belongs. She’s a deer caught in the headlights, looking at him with wonder, her lip pressed between her teeth, anticipation flickering in her eyes. 

_ Daenerys, Daenerys, you have thought me a lamb and yourself the wolf, but who is the prey now? _ He thinks as his fingers dig into her calves, raking up her flesh to her knees, her thighs. She moans low in her throat, her eyes locked on his as he’s kneading the soft flesh. A hand travels further up her thigh, to where her leg meets her sex and further still, the heel of his palm rubbing softly against her clean-shaven mons Venus. 

_ The things I would do to you, with you. _

He gives her another wicked smile as his thumb traces the shape of her folds, coming off slick. _ The things I _ ** _will_ ** _ do to you. _ He corrects himself as his thumb brushes over his lips, coating them in her want. 

“Mm!” he groans, eyes boring into her, licking his thumb, then lips. She tastes like sweet sin, like honey from wildflowers growing under a lemon grove. 

A puff of air and a low whimper leave her lips and she’s righting herself, her back leaving the marble and leaning towards him, her lips seeking his. 

He pulls back. _ Two can play this game, Daenerys. _

But he’s a fool to think she’d relent so easily. Her hands reach for him, grabbing ahold of his shoulders, bringing him back to her with urgency, wrapping one leg, then the other around the small of his back, trapping him in her snare. He can feel her wetness on his belly as she does and it makes his spent cock stir again. 

Nails dig in the back of his head as she’s pulling him to her until her mouth finds his and takes it. He can taste himself on her tongue as Daenerys’ other hand cups the cheek of his ass, kneading the flesh and pressing him to her closer still, and it’s all it takes. He’s hard again.

The hand she has on his ass moves in search of his cock, and Jorah knows she’ll guide him inside her.

“No.” He says, removing himself from her embrace, shaking his head.

“Yes!” She demands. “Yes!” She pleads, her hands searching for him yet again, want and need painted over her features. 

But he won’t let her have her way, not this time. 

He clasps both of her wrists with one hand as something stirs in his belly and makes his cock twitch and harden further. He can’t recall the last time a woman wanted him this much, let alone a woman as beautiful as her, and by God, the feeling is nothing short of intoxicating.

“Lie back,” he says, and it’s not his priest voice that comes out, but his military one. It’s an order, a command. Daenerys looks at him from beneath her eyelashes as her teeth bite down on her lip, and he doesn’t know if he has tamed her, or if she thinks it a game she’d like to play, but she obeys and Jorah releases her from his grip. 

He has his answer soon enough, for her legs still hold the grip on his back and she’s shifting her body in such a way that her wet folds are now on his erect cock, trapping it between his belly and her folds. Up and down, and up and down she moves her hips, like a painter’s brush, stroking herself on him, wetting the canvas of his cock with her want, all the while looking into his eyes, her lip still pressed between her teeth. 

A growl leaves his throat and Jorah doesn’t know where he finds the strength, but he manages to fight back the urge to sheathe himself inside her with one push of his hips. 

She is no lamb, he knows it now, and whatever beast she is, there is no taming her, the look in her eyes tells him as much. Maybe she is Lilith after all. 

The next sound leaving his lips is a snarl, a predator baring his teeth before his lovely prey, growling low in his throat with want. Daenerys blinks and Jorah smiles his old smile. If she is Lilith, then, he will be her Asmodeus. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, I'm a tease.... but I really like the last line in this chapter and I wanted it to have some gravitas instead of it being lost somewhere in the middle, but most importantly, I think that cutting it off here is better than cutting it off where I previously intended.  
Next chapter will be much, much longer than this.  
Hope you've enjoyed this little taste.


End file.
